


Brother

by thegraytigress



Category: Captain America (Movies), Marvel Cinematic Universe, The Avengers (Marvel Movies)
Genre: Angst, Brotherhood, Bucky Barnes Feels, Drama, Epic Bromance, Friendship, Gen, Hurt Bucky Barnes, Hurt/Comfort, Protective Steve Rogers, Steve Rogers Feels, Team as Family
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-10-14
Updated: 2014-10-14
Packaged: 2018-02-21 02:54:42
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 13,272
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/2452079
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/thegraytigress/pseuds/thegraytigress
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Steve can stand by Bucky and offer up his strength, courage, and determination. This nightmare was birthed in the war, and he thinks back to that and realizes that he can do this because he's done it before. He has always done it. This is what it means to be a brother.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Brother

**Author's Note:**

> **DISCLAIMER:** _Captain America: The First Avenger, Captain America: The Winter Soldier,_ and _The Avengers_ are the properties of Walt Disney Studios, Paramount Studios, and Marvel Studios. This work was created purely for enjoyment. No money was made, and no infringement was intended.
> 
>  **RATING:** T (for language, violence)
> 
>  **AUTHOR'S NOTE:** This is a companion piece to ["Fly From Heaven"](http://archiveofourown.org/works/2159406), but you don't need to read that story to follow this one. I've written a lot of Bucky taking care of Steve; this is the other way around. No slash. Just bromance and a hint of Sharon/Steve. Enjoy, and thanks for reading!

“Steve, you really shouldn’t go in there.”

“I have to.”

“Listen to me.  Whatever they did to him retriggered HYDRA’s programming.  He’s not Bucky Barnes right now.  He’s the Winter Soldier.  And he’s out of his mind.  Violent.  Aggressive.  Delusional.  He’s having a psychotic break.  A bad one.  He did a number on Thor just getting him in there, and Thor’s a lot stronger than you, no offense.”

“Doesn’t matter.”

“He could hurt you.”

“It doesn’t matter, Bruce.  He needs me.”

Bruce stares at him.  There is genuine concern in his eyes that Steve is irrationally brushing aside his legitimate warnings.  That concern is totally valid, both that Bucky could hurt him and that he should be taking these warnings about that more seriously.  But his own determination is just as valid and more powerful.  They all know it as they stare at him with fear in their eyes.  Fear for him.  Fear for the man who’s come to be one of their own against all odds and despite the horrors and sins of his past.  Bucky’s one of the team, and they’re helpless to save him now.

But Steve’s not.  Steve’s the one who brought him back after HYDRA fell and took SHIELD down with it.  He’s the one who searched tenaciously for days and weeks and _months_ , who followed him no matter how twisted his tracks were, who kept looking even when he was exhausted and worn and discouraged.  He’s the one who held onto his faith, who fought to believe even when everyone else gave up.  And he was right.  He found Bucky, filthy and alone and wandering senselessly through the world in search of his memories, of his identity.  He took him home to Stark Tower, washed away the grime and the filth and the blood from wounds that were never treated and might never heal.  He brought Bucky _back_.

The team was there to help, of course.  Tony gave him a place to stay, clothes to wear, and food to eat.  Sam knows better than anyone what Steve went through to find Bucky and what Bucky went through trying to find himself, so he was steady, offering a comforting, patient smile and calm, guiding hands.  Natasha provided a link to Bucky’s past, someone who understood the nature of his demons while also demonstrating proof of the possibility of reformation.  Clint was willing to take whatever Bucky was capable of giving, whether it was nothing at all or hot anger or cold dismissal.  Bruce was practical, clinical, and distant, and sometimes that was what was best in facing a difficult and emotionally-charged situation like recovering from decades of abuse, torture, and manipulation.  Thor’s gregariousness was literally a god-send, and at times his broad smile and all-encompassing acceptance was the only thing between Bucky and his hatred for himself.  Even Sharon, who was reluctant and wary at first only because of how worried she was for Steve and for how close Steve had come to dying at the hands of the Winter Soldier…  Even Sharon let him in her heart.

The team is there now, too, recovering from the rushed mission to one of the last and most powerful HYDRA cells in the world.  Natasha, Clint, and Bucky went there days ago to attempt to dismantle them, but only Natasha and Clint returned, beaten and defeated.  Steve didn’t need more than that to summon the Avengers, and together they immediately left New York to rescue Bucky.  He spent the flight out there and the day after that when they hunted HYDRA down barely holding himself together, panicked and worried.  They finally found Bucky, chained like an animal inside a cage and raging like a madman.  He was pumped full of drugs and subjected to “cognitive restoration” as one of the HYDRA scientists put it.  Tony threatened the man’s life, and he begged and sobbed and told a horrific tale of trying to reactivate HYDRA’s greatest asset, a tale which Steve couldn’t bear to hear.  Between Thor and him, they managed to knock Bucky out, but only barely and they both had the injuries to prove that.  And then they took Bucky back to New York, trying to tend his wounds as best they could on the tense and silent flight home.  They secured him in one of the Tower’s reinforced cages – _don’t think of it like that_ – for everyone’s protection, Bucky’s included.  The room was meant to contain people and things, villains and evil, that threatened the Avengers.  It kills Steve to see his friend locked inside like a prisoner.  It kills the rest of them, too.  They’re a family together, as incredible and unusual as that is.  And Bucky’s family is terrified for him.

Bruce sags slightly and shares a look with Clint.  Sharon’s there, too, trying to wrap up Steve’s arm where he was sliced during the skirmish in the HYDRA base.  She’s been quiet, but he can tell she’s afraid.  So is he; he just can’t make himself say it.  “Steve, I know you think you can bring him out of this–”

“I can,” Steve insists.  His arm stings as Sharon wipes disinfectant over it.  It’s not necessary with the protection afforded by the serum.  Neither are the stitches she wants him to have.  She’s trying to be helpful, trying to do what she can to ease his pain, and he can’t disabuse her of that.  He sighs, trying his best not to let his emotions show.  Not to let the desperation and grief and worry get the better of him.  “I’ve done it before.  You know I have.  I’ve gotten through to him before when he’s been triggered.”

“We know, Cap,” Clint says.  “But this is worse.  He’s not there at all.  Not any of him.”

“He’s got enough drugs in his system that he should be dead.  You’re not going to be able to get through that,” Bruce adds sadly.  “Steve, you need to listen to me.  I know you think he wouldn’t hurt you–”

“He won’t.”

“He has before,” Clint says.  Steve can’t argue with that, because it’s true and they all know it.  “He still could.  I’m not saying it’s his fault.”

“Then what are you saying?” Steve snaps at Clint.  He doesn’t mean to, but he can’t keep it inside.  It’s not their fault, either.  Not any of them.  But they never seem to understand why he needs to do this.  Why he tossed his shield down into the Potomac River and let the Winter Soldier attack him.  Why he had to track Bucky down when he was barely recovered from his injuries from the fight with HYDRA in DC all those months ago.  Why he stayed with Bucky as he suffered through nightmares and struggled with flashbacks and cycled through PTSD, why he took care of him through all of that even as Bucky’s rage spilled to the surface and inevitably ended up focused on him.  Why he _never gave up_.  He can’t blame them for not understanding.  They’ve only known him as Captain America.  They’ll never know him the way Bucky has.

Clint sighs and drops his hand to Steve’s shoulder in a show of support.  “It’s not his fault.  But you know better than anyone what he’s capable of.”  _What the Winter Soldier can do.  How he can hurt._   Steve does know.  It’s months removed and long since healed, but sometimes the place where he was shot, where Bucky shot him through his back and out his belly, still aches.

He stiffens without realizing it, so Bruce adds, “He doesn’t know what he’s doing.  Between being high out of his mind and… _reconditioned_ , he probably won’t recognize you.”

The throbbing is gone, nothing more than a twinge that he doesn’t let stop him.  “He will.”

“Steve, please.”  Sharon’s voice was soft.  She’s silently conceding the point about his arm, reaching for a roll of bandages from the first aid kit on the floor.  She was in DC when Steve called about the Avengers’ rushed mission to save Bucky, and she came right away.  She always does when Steve needs her, and he needs her now.  He needs her to understand.  Her eyes are knowing as she starts layering sterile pads over the slash.  The laceration is from Bucky; when Steve and Thor finally breached the cell in which HYDRA locked the Winter Soldier, Bucky had already armed himself with a sharp shard of glass from the surrounding labs.  _Already_ Bucky failed to recognize him and attacked him.  When Bucky slips, this anger always comes out.  She knows about it because Steve’s told her late at night when they’ve laid in bed together.  When the Winter Soldier threatens, he feeds on Bucky’s anger and spite and grief.  On his resentment for Steve.  On his _hatred_ , because Steve let him fall.  Seventy years ago, Steve let him go.

The others don’t know this.  How could they?  They see Bucky as this quiet, forlorn man, scarred and battered and broken by his past.  They don’t see the happy, handsome youth that protected Steve from the moment they met on the first day of school until his hands slipped from a train speeding through the Alps twenty years later.  They don’t know how much Steve owes him.  And it’s not even just about a debt he can never repay.  It’s about brotherhood.  That’s what they are to each other.  Brothers.

But Sharon knows.  Steve doesn’t think she approves, but if she doesn’t, she’s never said.  Their relationship was borne of all of this trauma, of Steve searching for Bucky and Sharon supporting him in a quest that at times seemed insurmountable.  Their love was built of her need to help him and of his need of her help.  So he doesn’t think he can stand her arguing with him now.  They have in the past, when Steve finally found Bucky and brought him back to Stark Tower and wore himself low and thin trying to bring memories out of a shattered mind and the man out of the monster.  She doesn’t like what this does to him, and he knows it, and he knows he hurts her by downplaying it.  But he still can’t let it go.  And he can’t do this without her support.  “At least give it some time.  Give the drugs time to work out of his system.”

“She’s got a point, Steve.”  Clint looks pained, like he doesn’t like what he has to say.  There’s logic behind it, but logic isn’t enough.  It rarely is.  “Let him come down.”

“I can’t do that.  Not if he’s a threat to himself.  Can’t we give him something else?  Something to knock him out until it wears off?”

Bruce looks helpless.  “I don’t know if we should risk an interaction with whatever they gave him.  The wrong combination could kill him.”

 _Damn it._   “Then I have to be with him.  I can’t leave him in there to suffer like this,” Steve says.  He winces despite himself as Sharon presses hard on the bandages to keep them snug and in place before winding the gauze around his forearm.  All the years Bucky spent alone, suffering as HYDRA tortured him and twisted him…  “I can’t do that to him.  I gotta be with him now.”

Sharon secures the bandages and pushes a lock of hair behind her ear before she stands.  She’s afraid and helpless, and he’s well aware of how much she hates that.  “Then let someone go in there with you,” she insists.

“I can’t ask any of you–”

“You are not asking.”  The low baritone draws their attention, and Steve rises from the chair outside of Bucky’s room and turns to see Thor walking down the hallway.  Sam is with him, and they both sport a multitude of bruises and burdens.  Thor comes to stand beside Steve.  His face is worn, weary with the evils done to his friends, and he nods sadly.  “And you will not do this alone.”

Steve releases a slow breath, heartened not for the first time at the strength and courage of his team.  He manages something of a smile before nodding, clasping Thor on the shoulder.  Bruce and Clint step back to allow them access to the room beyond.  Steve walks to it, Sharon at his side.  She doesn’t say anything further to dissuade him, though he knows she wants to.  It’s not because she blames Bucky, but she fears for him and she fears for Steve and the damage this has done to them both.  Things have settled into such a state of normalcy over the last few weeks, with Bucky joining the Avengers and working with the team to eradicate the remains of HYDRA and protect the world from further evil.  It seems impossible to believe the good things are being threatened again.  That their home and their family are in danger.  That the nightmare is back.  And evil is trying to retake Bucky.

Steve can’t let that happen.

So she doesn’t stop him.  She only offers a hint of a smile, intertwining her small hand with his in a tender, encouraging squeeze.  “We’re going to keep a constant eye on you.  Just in case.”  She embraces him briefly.  “Go be with him.  Get him back.”

He nods.  He’s at the door now.  Thor is beside him, as is Sam, and they are both silent and steadfast.  He can feel their concern like it’s a palpable force slamming against him, and he could have wavered, but he doesn’t.  _Bucky needs you._   It’s a thought that’s been in his head nearly constantly for the last six months.  Over these last few weeks it’s been quieter, maybe even silent at times, but’s never been gone.  And now it’s there again, as loud and persistent as ever.  _Bucky needs you. Go be with him.  Get him back.  You have to stand by him now.  Stand by him.  He’s your brother, and he needs you._

He grasps the handle of the door.  JARVIS has already unlocked it.  He manages a deep breath, finding it hard to summon that strength that Bucky always tells him he has before remembering that the only thing more constant than his strength is Bucky’s faith in it.  And that faith is still there.  Steve just has to find it again.

He opens the door.  He can stand by Bucky now and offer up his strength, courage, and determination.  This nightmare was birthed in the war, and he thinks back to that and realizes as he always does that he can do this because he’s done it before.  He has always done it.  This is what it means to be a brother.

* * *

Something was wrong with Bucky.  Steve had suspected it for a while, but it was one of those thoughts that was way too distressing to really think about it so he didn’t.  He filed it away in his head, promising to himself that he’d spend time examining it later but he never ended up doing it.  There was always an excuse.  A mission.  Being drop-dead weary.  The fact that he didn’t want to acknowledge the truth (Bucky had always told him he was damn good at deluding himself).  The fact that it _hurt_ too much to acknowledge it.  Now he really couldn’t keep lying to himself.  All these little things he’d been noticing over the last few weeks were piling up, piecing together into a picture that was undeniable.  Bucky’s eyes, always so familiar to him that now sometimes seemed like a stranger’s.  Bucky’s voice, ragged with something raw that had never been there before.  Bucky’s body, bent with pain and fatigue when he thought no one was looking.  Bucky’s hands, shaking where they never used to.  Bucky’s strength and cool composure, fundamentally altered.

He wasn’t who he had been.  That terrified Steve more than he could ever admit.  Nearly three months had passed since Steve had rescued Bucky and the bulk of the 107th from the HYDRA factory in Azzano.  A month of that time had been spent pulling the Howling Commandos together, training and working with SSR to prepare for their offensive against HYDRA.  Things had seemed bright and promising, with Steve becoming Captain America and receiving the Medal of Valor.  Bucky had recovered from his captivity, and having received a fairly clean bill of health from the medics, he was back on his feet and serving his country.  Their old camaraderie had returned like it had never been interrupted, easy smiles and laughs and hearty hugs.  Gentle (and not so gentle) ribbing and knowing looks.  Bucky had, of course, chewed him out for volunteering for the dangerous and untested procedure that had transformed him from his sickly, frail self into Captain America.  His new body and status were taking them both some getting used to.  As crazy as it seemed, earlier that year Bucky had been the one saving Steve, pulling him from fights and patching up his injuries and taking care of him when he’d been sick.  Now Steve was big, stronger and faster than any man alive.  He didn’t need Bucky like that anymore.  So while some things were the same as they’d ever been, other things were new, altered, and uncharted.  This wasn’t to say the whole of their friendship had been Bucky watching out for Steve, although that had certainly been a substantial part of it.  It just meant that this novel dynamic was taking them both a bit by surprise.

But that couldn’t account for Bucky’s behavior these last weeks.  The excitement and euphoria of finding each other inexplicably in the middle of Italy was wearing off, and the reality of war was setting in.  They’d both wanted this from the minute Germany had invaded Poland.  Bucky had wanted the glamor and excitement of it, to travel from Brooklyn and see the world and do something worthwhile.  Steve had wanted to follow in his father’s footsteps, to do what was right and good, to serve his country and fight for freedom.  And he’d wanted to prove himself (this was _still_ a sore spot between them, and no amount of convincing on his part could make Bucky believe he hadn’t enlisted and joined the super soldier program on some crusade to demonstrate his worth).  Now they were _there,_ on the front and together, fighting the Nazis as members of an elite team tasked with the most dangerous and daring of missions in a quest to take down HYDRA.  The miseries of war were beginning to be realized in full force, and it wasn’t just that Bucky had been a POW or that Steve had been shot (once, and he was _fine_ ).  It was long nights and mud and cold rain and marching.  It was guns and smoke and screaming and things they’d seen already that they’d never forget no matter how hard they tried.  It was bone-aching fatigue and hunger and thirst, sore feet and throbbing muscles, eyes that didn’t focus and brains that blissfully checked out.

Still, even _that_ didn’t explain it.  Sure, they all felt the stress, some more acutely than others.  The Howling Commandos were all POWs except Steve, so they were more hardened than most.  And they were facing some of the worst and most maniacal the Nazis and HYDRA had to offer, so there was no time to be bogged down with nightmares and flashbacks.  And it wasn’t like Bucky was overcome with them; in fact, he’d recovered so readily from his time as a prisoner in Azzano that Steve had wondered if it hadn’t been too good to be real.  Bucky had brushed it off, spent the minimal amount of time in the hospital before returning to active duty.  Bucky had seemed _fine_ , every bit like his old self, so much so that Steve had wondered if it had happened at all.  Granted, he never talked about the period he’d been HYDRA’s prisoner, that he’d been strapped to that table and tortured and probably experimented on.  But Steve couldn’t expect him to, at least not right away.  In time, Steve hoped he would come to him.

He never did.  And now that mask of normalcy was vanishing, chipped apart by every moment Bucky spent lying and pretending and ignoring the fact that he wasn’t okay.  That he was different, scarred, _broken_ even, and Steve was Captain America.  They weren’t the same as they had been, and it was starting to hurt.

Christmas was coming.  It was strange, Christmas in the middle of a warzone.  There wasn’t going to be much of a celebration.  They were in northern Italy, pushing through the snowy woods and plains toward a small HYDRA base near the border and clearing the Axis troops as they went from the other villages and towns.  A contingent of SSR was following them some miles back in support, but they were moving slower and keeping their distance to prevent HYDRA from catching wind that the attack was coming.  Depending on how things went, they should reach the HYDRA base before nightfall tomorrow.  Everybody was tired and nobody was happy to be working so hard in the bitter cold; their unit was new, their team still working out its dynamics, but they were comfortable enough around each other and around their new CO to complain.  Even still, they were all too keenly aware of how important their mission was to do more than lament it.

Their little camp was quiet.  One of the farming families they’d freed from HYDRA control had offered them a place to stay, so the Commandos were bunked down in a barn.  It was musty, old, and pretty unkempt, but it was better than a night out in the snow and cold, biting wind.  Steve didn’t feel the cold quite like he used to.  This was his first winter in this new body, this new body that ran hot all the time and burned through food like there was no tomorrow and didn’t require much sleep at all.  It was disorienting and a tad disconcerting, because he was so used to pain and weakness and infirmity.  Every other winter in his life he’d spent sick, barely able to breathe and feverish.  As he watched the others shiver their way through a fitful rest, he wondered not for the first time how this was his life now, how he’d been so fortunate to get this chance to be strong and healthy and, above all, capable.

There was a shuffling behind him, and he turned from where he sat near the door of the barn.  “You should be sleeping,” he said.

“Too damn cold,” Falsworth answered.  “Mind if I sit with you?”

“Not at all,” Steve answered.  He had his shield braced between his knees, and he was staring out into the crisp, icy night.  The sky was clear and filled with millions of stars, and the air was still.  The world was silent.  It was odd how quickly he’d gotten acclimated to the sound of gunfire and artillery.

Falsworth lowered himself to the frigid ground.  “How’s the shoulder?”

“Good as new.”

“Damn fortunate that serum they gave you heals you up so fast.  Bloody near blew your arm off.”  Steve smiled faintly and looked down.  Doctor Erskine had said the serum would provide protection against injury, but he really hadn’t anticipated how _much_ it did.  Falsworth was right; that shot should have taken him down, but it hadn’t.  It hadn’t even slowed him much.  And he should have lost his arm, but at most he’d been sore for a couple of days.  There wasn’t even a scar.

A low moan resounded from behind them.  Bucky was curled up in the straw near the side of the barn, wrapped in his blanket and Steve’s.  He was shivering, but not just from the cold.  Steve watched him suffer for another moment, worry twisting his heart.  He was just about to get up and go over there to wake him, but Bucky calmed and slipped back into a deeper sleep.  Steve felt Falsworth sigh beside him.  “He’s getting worse.”

That made Steve feel simultaneously relieved and ashamed.  Relieved because it was validation that this wasn’t just in his head.  Ashamed because it _wasn’t_ just in his head, and he hadn’t done a damn thing thus far to make it better.  “Did you see what they did to him back in Azzano?”

Falsworth pulled his beret from his head, revealing wavy brown hair that was mussed.  The Brit was an officer above all else, ever the voice of propriety and decorum in their unit, so seeing him disheveled and burdened was troubling.  “No.  Honestly, Captain, he was the only one who ever survived that ward and probably only because you saved him.  Whatever the Germans were doing was killing men almost faster than they could catch them.”  Steve looked away from Bucky’s form, that familiar, unsatisfied anger over the whole mess of it churning in his gut.  “The medics looked him over, didn’t they?”

“They didn’t find anything.”  Aside from Bucky being dehydrated, exhausted, and bothered by some old bruising, he’d been given a clean bill of health.  But something inside Steve just knew that wasn’t the whole story.  Obviously Zola had been doing _something_ to him and to all of the other men who hadn’t been lucky enough to survive.  Maybe the man scientist hadn’t been able to complete his experiments with Bucky.  Maybe they hadn’t worked.  Or maybe they had and the doctors just couldn’t see the results.  Thinking like this was going to drive him crazy.

Falsworth realized the same thing.  “We might never know,” he said, turning back to the pale, mournful moon and the solemnity of the stars.  “You care about him a lot.  Chums back home?”

Steve nodded.  “Back in Brooklyn.  He’s like a brother to me.”  It was so much more than that, but his voice failed him.  He felt like he was losing Bucky a piece at a time.  He felt like he was helpless again.  “He took care of me.  Ever since we were kids.  He’s always been there for me.”

“I know what that’s like, watching someone you care about suffer and there’s not a damn thing you can do about it.”  Falsworth’s expression darkened into a scowl as he stared out across the moon-soaked field before them.  Steve wasn’t prepared to accept this.  That helpless feeling left him itching in his skin, these newfound muscles taut with the desire to do something to make this better.  Bucky was different, and he was hurting, and Steve had to help him.

The opportunity came right then.  Bucky’s fitful sleep erupted into a full-fledged nightmare.  He lurched in the straw, giving a ragged cry.  Steve turned instantly, and he was on his feet a breath later.  “Bucky?” he called, reaching for his friend’s shivering body.

“No…  No!  Don’t!  Don’t touch me!”

“Bucky!”  Steve fell to his knees beside the other man, his own heart pounding at seeing Bucky struggle against the demons in his dreams.  Bucky’s face was contorted in agony, glistening with perspiration and white with terror.  He failed, swinging his arm out and nearly hitting Steve.  Steve caught his wrist and pressed closer, desperate to do something to wake the other man.  “Bucky!  It’s a nightmare!  Come on, wake up!”

The screaming grew louder and hoarser, piercing the silence of the winter night and rousing the rest of the Commandos.  Steve winced at the panicked cries, horrified at whatever Bucky was facing.  “It’s Steve,” he said.  “Open your eyes.  You’re having a bad dream, that’s all.  It’s not real, Buck.  Wake up!”  He leaned over Bucky, trying to offer up some sort of anchor in reality.  Bucky struggled in a frenzy beneath him.  “Listen to me.  Listen!”

“Captain, he’ll draw attention to us!” Falsworth warned.  Dernier and Jones were already scrambling for their guns, rushing to the entrance of the barn to take up defensive positions.  Falsworth was right; the noise would lead any German scouting party right to their location.  He had to stop this now.

“What the hell’s happenin’?” Dugan grumbled drowsily.

“Barnes,” Morita said, having come to Bucky’s other side.  He grabbed Bucky’s shoulder and shook it roughly.  “Barnes!  Stop!”

Bucky did stop.  His eyes snapped open, wild and bright in the blackness.  They were devoid of understanding, of recognition.  And a second later, he flung himself at Steve.  Steve hadn’t been prepared and he went down beneath Bucky’s weight, the cold floor of the barn rough and unforgiving to his back.  He was so surprised he barely caught the wink of silver careening toward his neck in time.  A combat knife.  The one Steve knew Bucky kept in his boot.

“Christ!” Dugan cried.  Guns were pulled to the ready and aimed.

Steve snatched the blade just a hair’s breadth from slicing his throat.  Bucky was straddling him, wild with fury and panic, pushing down with all his strength.  “Stay back!” he roughly ordered his men.  He spared a glance at them.  “Stay back!”  They didn’t look convinced, weapons still pointed at Bucky as he snarled and struggled to stab Steve.  Steve knew he had the strength to end this, to push Bucky off and disarm him, but he didn’t.  He wasn’t going to hurt him.  Not when Bucky wasn’t aware of what he was doing.  “Bucky,” he called softly, trying to keep his voice calm and steady.  “It’s Steve.  Snap out of it.  I’m not going to hurt you.  I’d never hurt you.”

Bucky’s eyes glinted like pools of black in the moonlight.  He was shaking, driven by terror and self-preservation.  He still didn’t know where he was.  Who he was with.  “Buck,” Steve whispered.  “You know me.  You _know_ me.”

Bucky blinked, and he was back.  “Steve?”

“Yeah.”

He grimaced in pain, dropping the knife and skittering back.  Steve sat up and reached for him, but he was already up and running outside of the barn.  Running away.

* * *

Bucky can’t run away now.  He’s trapped in the cell.  Tony designed it and built it so it could contain the world’s worst threats in the event they ever needed to, and the Winter Soldier’s definitely among those.  But Steve’s never been able to see anything other than Bucky in the assassin, even at moments like these.  “Bucky?” he calls, tentatively stepping inside the room.  It’s not very big, and there’s a bed, toilet, and sink fastened to one wall.  Bucky’s beside those, pressed into the only shadows the room has in the corner.  He looks awful.  His combat suit is filthy and ripped.  His hair is snarled and caked with dirt and blood.  He’s pale and unshaven, and his eyes are sunken and lined with pain and fatigue.  He looks like he did when Steve found and brought him all those months ago.  No, he looks _worse_ , because Steve convinced himself back then that he’d never let Bucky be so hurt and dirty and _damaged_ again, and here he is.  Here they are, back where they started.

God, that hurts.  “Bucky,” he says again.  Thor and Sam are behind him, but they’re not moving deeper into the room from the door.  They know to stay back.  Steve draws as deep a breath as he can manage, trying to slow the frantic pace of his heart and stay calm.  He’s done this before.  He knows he needs to be cool, collected, and patient.  Persistent.  He knows these things, but his own anger and grief is stronger than it used to be.  Bucky has suffered so much, and it feels like with one fell swoop everything he’s worked so hard to achieve has been stolen again.  Steve’s frustrated and worn, but he’s stronger than that.  He has to be.  “Bucky.”

Bucky looks at Steve, _stares_ at him, but Steve knows he’s not seeing him.  He knows because that’s the same dead, hollowed out expression Bucky had when they first brought him to Stark Tower.  And, worse than that, it’s not _just_ empty.  There’s something there Steve hasn’t seen too often, but when he has, it’s been horrible.  Rage.  Maniacal hunger.  The raw damage done to Bucky’s soul, the places where HYDRA ripped him apart and put him back together as a murderer.  As a monster.  That’s at the surface, as visceral and undeniable as it was back when Steve found him.  It’s frightening.  “It’s Steve.  I’m here.”  Bucky does nothing, says nothing, and that glare gets harder and harder.  Colder.  Steve swallows a lump in his throat.  “I’m here to help you, okay?  No one’s going to hurt you.”

“You keep lyin’.”  Bucky’s voice is little more than a hiss.  “All you do.   _Lie._ ”

The accusation cuts straight through to Steve’s hard like a spike of ice.  _It’s not Bucky saying it.  It’s not._ “I’m not lying,” Steve returns.  “I want to help you.  You know that I do, Buck.  You know m–”

The rest of his words are cut off, _choked off_ , because faster than they could see or prevent, the Winter Soldier is across the cell.  He snatches Steve by his shirt and yanks him closer, head over heels in fact, and slams him onto the floor.  Steve gasps when the air rushes from his lungs, dazed for a second, and in that second he’s wrenched back up and driven into the wall.  He hears shouting.  Sam.  Thor.  There are other hands involved besides those wrapped around his neck and crushing his throat.  They’re trying to pull Bucky off of him.  Steve blinks the tears from his eyes and holds Bucky’s gaze, holds it even though the _lack_ of Bucky in those violent, blue eyes is always horrifying to him.  “Bucky,” he gasps.  “You know me!”

“Who are you?  Who the hell are you?”

It always hurts when Bucky gets like this, too.  Wildly erratic.  Violently confused, like the memories inside his head have been all jumbled up and rearranged until nothing makes sense.  It took a long time after bringing Bucky home for him to piece together who he had been before Zola took him.  It had been like a gigantic jigsaw puzzle, and Steve had patiently helped him make the picture seem right.  Since then, there have been moments where that picture has been hazy or unclear again, but nothing quite this bad.  Steve is patient, though, and damn proficient at staying that way even when he’s hurt, scared, and frustrated.  He does it now despite the fact that he can hardly breathe.  “It’s Steve, Buck.  We’ve been friends for years.”

The denial comes.  It always does when Bucky is dragged back into the darkness, because trapped there and consumed by shadow, he can’t see Steve.  The metal hand squeezes.  “No, we’re not!  No!  _No!_ ”

“Cap!” Sam cries, and then the metal fingers that had been ripping into the tender flesh of Steve’s throat are gone.  Bucky is struggling wildly, deranged, _beyond_ their reach.  Thor has him, his huge and powerful arms wrapped around Bucky from behind.  Bucky’s screaming.  There are no words; it’s an animalistic howl, a primal and ragged thing, and it makes Steve’s heart bleed and soul shrivel.  “Steve, you okay, man?”  Sam’s got an arm around him, steadying him as he gasps for breath.  “Steve?”

“Fine,” Steve murmurs, swallowing blood from where he bit his cheek, and he offers Sam a thankful glance between pulling away from his grasp.  He staggers to Bucky and grabs his face between his hands.  “Buck.  Look at me.  _Look at me._ ”  Bucky doesn’t.  He squeezes his eyes shut, grimacing as he redoubles his efforts to get free from Thor.  He’s wailing nonsensically, sweating and struggling, and Thor holds tighter.  Steve does, too.  “Bucky.  Buck!  Come on.  Look at me now.  You’re home.  You’re safe.  We got you out of there, and you’re gonna be okay.  You hear me?  Bucky, it’s Steve.  I need you to look at me.”

Bucky’s ragged cries morph into halting, stuttering words in Russian.  They’re softly spoken, rushed and random whispers of things from his past.  Steve can’t hear them all, but he catches frightened pleas and rough orders and angry denials.  When he gets like this, Steve’s tried playing along in the past.  Perpetuating HYDRA’s lies never works out.  “Bucky,” he says again, sweeping his thumbs over Bucky’s cheekbones tenderly.  “Let him go, Thor.”

Thor regards him as though he’s crazy.  Maybe he is.  “Steven, I do not believe–”

“It’s alright,” Steve promises.  He spares the demigod a glance.  “It’s alright.”

The tension in the cell is cruel and unrelenting, and Thor hesitates for a long moment, even as Bucky works himself toward exhaustion in his arms.  Steve nods at his friend, and Thor slowly relaxes his grip.  Steve’s there to take charge, grabbing Bucky’s shoulders.  The minute Thor lets go, Bucky lurches and jerks and starts struggling again, but it’s too late.  Captain America has his arms around him now, and Captain America is incredibly strong in his own right.

And so is Steve.  “You listen to me, Buck,” he whispers in Bucky’s ear.  The metal arm fists his shirt again, squeezing his back with enough force to bruise.  Steve can’t tell if Bucky is doing it to hurt him or to hold on.  It doesn’t matter.  He pulls Bucky closer and refuses to let go.  “You know me.  You trust me.  I’ve got you.”

Bucky keens, coming apart in his arms as the drugs course through his veins and wreak havoc on his mind.  As the programming battles with he who is, who he wants to be.  Steve holds him tighter.  He knows this hellish circle.  It’ll be the first of many until they can get through to him completely.  Violence and hysteria and then grief and anguish.  When the misery is spent and the madness gears up again, it starts over.  It’s vicious and rough, but Steve will go through it with him.  He’ll work through it, walk with it, push past it.  “You’re gonna be okay,” he promises again, holding Bucky as tightly as he can as he cries.  “I’m here, and we’re gonna get you through this.”

* * *

Steve didn’t know how to fix this.  It needed to be fixed, that was for damn sure, but this was something with which he’d never dealt before.  Bucky had always been the strong one, the calm one, the capable one.  Bucky had been the one to pull him up when he’d been down, the rock in their friendship, the one with the right things to say and the right things to do.  Somehow Steve had never anticipated that their roles would reverse this way.  This wasn’t to say that Steve had never helped Bucky or stood by him; on the contrary, he knew Bucky appreciated every time he’d defended Bucky’s honor from the bullies or stood up in defense of his sisters or cheered him up on a glum day.  But this went far beyond any of that.  This was terrifying.

He had to do something.

“You sure about this, Cap?”  Dugan was pressed against the crumbling brick wall outside yet another tormented Italian village.  Beside him, Falsworth was peering beyond the breaking façade of stone to gauge the threat beyond.  They knew already that a contingent of Nazis and HYDRA were using the town as their base.  The HYDRA commander was supposedly of some importance to Schmidt.  The Commandos needed to get in, save the civilians left alive, clear out the enemy, and hopefully take this man prisoner for interrogation.  It was a dangerous mission because this place was for all intents a HYDRA stronghold, and they’d counted at least fifty enemy soldiers hiding in the buildings.  They’d have to storm the town, and there were only seven of them.  SSR was still too far behind them to provide support.

But Steve knew that wasn’t what was worrying Dugan.  The man’s eyes were trained unabashedly on Bucky, who was crouched across the muddy, snowy road against the other side of the wall.  Morita, Dernier, and Jones were with him.  None of them had forgotten about the events of the night before.  Bucky himself looked pale and haggard, nothing like his normal cavalier and confident self.  He hadn’t eaten that morning.  His gregarious nature was crushed under the weight of exhaustion and whatever torment was eating him from the inside out.  He hadn’t said a thing to anyone, not even to Steve when Steve had asked him before they’d set out if he was okay.  He looked like he was coming apart right before their eyes.

No, Steve wasn’t sure.  But he made himself be certain.  “Yeah.”

That was all the confirmation Dugan needed.  The Commandos attacked.

The fight was fast and furious.  The Nazis weren’t prepared for their assault, and they scrambled to ready their defenses.  By the time they did, it was too late.  Captain America was there, his shield bright even in the cloudy, snowy conditions, and he knocked them back with all the force and speed and strength the serum afforded him.  Behind him the Commandos charged into the fray, guns blaring.  “Get the people out!” Steve yelled, taking on the bulk of the opposition himself as his men scattered to follow his orders.  He moved fast, driving his fist into the midriff of one German soldier to knock him back into his comrades before batting away a grenade tossed at him with his shield.  He made sure to direct it back at the men firing on Dernier and Morita, and the explosion blocked another enemy company from advancing.  “Go!  Go!”

For what felt to be forever, Steve simply fought.  His team flushed the Germans from the surrounding homes and shops, and he was there to face them.  Already Captain America’s reputation was spreading through the German ranks; the men were either overly eager to have their chance to destroy America’s hero or there were scared witless.  It didn’t matter because they all fell to Steve’s shield.  Their guns, even the new weapons developed by Schmidt that vaporized men in a show of crackling and blinding blue, meant nothing against Steve.  The Commandos cleared the buildings one at a time, their team already functioning as a well-oiled machine, and in a matter of minutes the surprised Germans had lost this fight.

Dugan and Jones were engaged with the last group of HYDRA soldiers.  Steve took cover behind the corner of a building.  Across what passed for the town’s square, Falsworth, Morita, and Dernier were protecting the line of crying and quivering townspeople as they were led from the melee.  HYDRA had a particularly nasty habit of simply exterminating civilians who were unfortunate enough to be in their way, so the fact that so many of the innocent citizens of this village were still alive was comforting.  “Alright?” Steve called to the others.

“We have this, Captain,” Falsworth yelled back, and that was all Steve needed to return to the mission.  Most of the German soldiers were dead or surrendering at this point, so Steve stopped to take stock of their situation.  The HYDRA commander wasn’t among those they’d forced from the surrounding buildings.

And Bucky was nowhere to be found.

Dum Dum was there beside him, reloading his Winchester, sweating and exhilarated from the fight.  “Have you seen Barnes?” Steve asked, growing increasingly concerned that Bucky wasn’t anywhere in the square and that he didn’t seem to be in any of the buildings nearby.

Dugan let out a short breath.  “Not since we started,” he answered.

Steve’s worry ratcheted up higher and tighter inside him.  That niggling whisper of doubt in his mind grew into a roar.  “Help Falsworth get the people clear.  I’m gonna look for him.”

“What about our target?” Dugan demanded as Steve began to run across the frozen grass.

“Him, too.”  Steve was gifted with sharp senses and enhanced speed now, so he searched in earnest, moving quickly from building to building.  He didn’t dare call out Bucky’s name, not when the enemy could still be lurking in the shadows inside these abandoned living rooms, kitchens, and bedrooms.  As he raced, listening and looking and praying, horrible images began to stampede across his mind.  Steve tried to hold them back.  They were the same horrible images he’d suffered with months before when he’d been flying through restricted airspace to drop into the HYDRA fortress in Azzano.  Bucky hurt.  Bucky dead or dying.  Bucky needing him and he wasn’t there to help him.  All the times in their youth that Bucky had been there to save Steve, and he was failing him now.  His search grew more frantic, kicking in doors and quickly ushering out the civilians he found, disabling any remaining HYDRA forces like they were little more than impediments slowing him down.  His thoughts were becoming panicked.  _God, he’s dead.  He’s dead, and I wasn’t there.  Need to find him.  I have to find him!_

He found him.  He found him in the cellar of one of the larger farm houses tucked away from the town proper.  Steve leapt down from the ground above into the shadowy hole, and his eyes adjusted quickly to the stark decrease in illumination.  And they immediately widened.  His heart stopped dead in his chest.  He’d pictured Bucky lost, hurt, bleeding his life away on this cold, gray, icy day…

This was worse.

“Buck,” Steve quietly called.  He took a small step closer.  “Bucky?”

But the man that held the HYDRA commander and his aides at gunpoint didn’t answer.  He turned to look at Steve slowly, so slowly, and the eyes that were so familiar to him, that had lighted in laughter and darkened in friendly concern and glowed with strength and power and _goodness_ …  They were dead.  _Dead._

Bucky’s finger tightened on the trigger.

“Bucky, no!”

* * *

Bucky’s always got his finger on some sort of trigger.  Even when they were kids, he was the loud one, the brash one.  Steve maybe got into more fights, but that was only because he was smaller and less capable of defending himself.  Bucky was big and confident and had a swagger in his step a mile wide.  He was smart and strong and he knew it, so when he found something he didn’t like, bullies and injustice, he really could stand up to it.  Steve admired that about him so much, envied it in fact.  When Steve started something, it wasn’t because he wanted to fight, and the bullies came at him because they knew they could win.  When Bucky started something, it was because he wanted to and he could, and he _always_ won.

Something of that has always stuck with Bucky even through HYDRA’s programming.  This impulsive desire to fight, to set things right, to not be seen as weak, to answer the problems of his life with physicality and athleticism because he had enough of that to spare.  To be honest, Steve’s never liked that part of him, that he so willingly throws a punch, but that’s who he is, not just in bad times but in good ones as well.  Bucky touches a lot.  He’s eager and easy with hugs, with arms around shoulders, with rough-housing.  That was the stuff that was so hard to reclaim after getting him back.  HYDRA took away the affection and left violence.  HYDRA took away _everything_ good and pure about Bucky’s heart and left behind a monster.

And it’s a monster that will never be completely defeated.  Steve has told Bucky time and time again that they could kill this thing inside him, and he truly believes it’s possible, but even he knows it’s a longshot.  Still, he keeps up his hope.  Just like he despises Bucky’s impulsivity, he knows his unerring and naïve optimism rubs Bucky the wrong way, now more than ever.  It didn’t bug him so much when they were kids; Steve’s faith in life and the inherent goodness in people was one of the few things that had kept them going sometimes.  But Bucky’s hardened now, wiser to the ways of evil, and scarred.  Despite that, despite all of the horrible things Bucky has done, Steve’s faith in _him_ is unshakable and always has been.  He keeps promising and believing that things will be okay when they’re not and maybe never will be.  But that’s who Steve is, too.  “It’ll be alright, Buck,” he says.  “I know it will be.”

“No, it won’t!  Get away from me!”  Bucky pushes Steve away.  “You’re a goddamn liar!  Stupid bastard.”

“Buck…”

The metal arm lashes out and knocks Steve back.  It hits him hard across the face, and Steve staggers against the wall of the cell.  “You did this to me,” Bucky rages.  Thankfully this time he doesn’t follow up the blow with any more.  He’s been pacing like a caged animal, wild and violent.  Steve has kept his distance, but he’s never left.  Thor and Sam are just outside; they reluctantly departed an hour or so ago when it was clear having so many people in the cell was making Bucky more agitated.  At the slightest sign of Steve’s life being in danger, they’ve been back, tearing inside the cell to pull Bucky off of him.  Bucky’s still violent, still unhinged, but that violence is becoming more and more married with grief and guilt, with sobs so powerful they break Bucky down to nothing.  It’s _him_ coming through the madness.  Steve knows this because he’s been through this before, knows well how the cycle works.  And Bucky’s wearing down now.  The drugs and programming have pushed his body too hard and fast, and even as enhanced as he is, he’s running out of the endurance and strength to keep obliging it.

Steve wipes the blood away from his lip.  Bucky lashing out at him seems to be the end result of all of these episodes.  Granted, this is by far the worse, but it’s not the first time Steve has been hit.  And insulted.  And _blamed._ The words hurt much worse than the blows.  “You let me fall,” Bucky snarls.  “You let me fall!”

There’s no sense in arguing this.  The logical part of Steve knows losing Bucky in the Alps hadn’t been his fault.  But this is always the hardest to just take, the worst of the wounds Bucky leverages against him.  And it always comes back to this.  This ultimate failure.  This damning betrayal.  “I know, Buck.  Believe me, I tried to stop it.  I tried–”

 _“Shut up!”_   Bucky is on him again.  Steve blocks the first strike.  It’s sloppy as Bucky’s energy starts to fail him, so he can easily push it aside.  The second punch lands in his midriff, a shot that drives the air out of his lungs.  The desire to hit back never manifests itself.  Steve has _never_ hit Bucky back.  He never will, no matter what.  The poison is coming out of him now, hard and fast.  Steve lets it, breathing heavily and standing as still as possible as Bucky pins him to the wall.  “Why did you do it?  Why did you let them do this to me?”

Steve swallows through a dry throat and stays calm.  He wrestles his arms free.  “You know I would have saved you if I could.”  He gets Bucky’s face between his hands again and makes him look at him.  He can see the war in his eyes, the programming fighting against the man he was and still is.  The nightmare of war and torture, the result of Steve not being fast enough and Bucky not being strong enough and the whole disastrous turn of events that had led to that moment on that train seventy years ago.  _Captain America._   _The Winter Soldier._ Two boys from Brooklyn who should have never faced so much suffering and sacrifice.

The metal fist slams into the wall beside Steve’s head, a pulverizing strike that dents even the strong metal of the cage and would have certainly crushed Steve’s skull.  Steve doesn’t flinch.  “I’ll kill you,” Bucky warns.

“You won’t,” Steve returns calmly.  Confidently.  “I know you won’t.”

“Yes, I will!  _I will, goddamn it!_ ”

“No,” Steve whispers.  “This darkness inside you?  It’s not you.  You know that.  You need to remember now.”  Bucky’s sweat-streaked face trembles, his lips pulled from his teeth in a half a snarl like he doesn’t know whether to be furious or upset.  “This isn’t you.  Now come on.  You’re a good man, and you’re my friend.  You know that.”

“No, I don’t.”  The words are sobbed, ragged and deeply pained.

“Yes, you do,” Steve insists.  “You’re not going to hurt me.”

The monster surges back.  It’s a constant struggle.  Bucky’s face is close to his, dark and wrathful, and all his weight is pressing Steve into the wall.  Steve thinks he can still get free, but he can’t now.  He needs to show Bucky that he trusts him.  This is where his faith is most the tested, and he knows it’s a battle he needs to win.  He’s completely at Bucky’s mercy.  The metal fist is shaking against the wall, like Bucky’s muscles are wound tight with the desire to _hurt_ and _kill_ and get vengeance against everyone who’s ever wronged him.  But they’re wound tight second after second, not releasing.  “You know me,” Steve repeats.  He let Bucky go once.  He never will again.  “It’s alright.  I swear to you.  It’s alright.”

Bucky is trying to believe him.  Steve can make him.  He knows he can.

* * *

“It’s alright, Buck.  Just put the gun down.  You don’t want to do this.”

Bucky was shaking.  Every part of him was caught in a tremendous war.  Steve could see his jaw clench and unclench, his eyes narrowed but not _seeing_ , his shoulders trembling and his finger twitching on the trigger of his pistol.  The men kneeling at his feet were terrified, eyes averted and hands on their heads.  It was obvious they’d tussled with Bucky; one of the aides had a split lip and the other was holding a sprained or fractured arm to his chest.  The HYDRA commander was white-faced with the barrel of the gun mere inches from his forehead.

Steve didn’t know what to do.  He stood stock still, not moving closer, not even daring to breathe.  Bucky was on the edge, and if he pushed him the wrong way…  He couldn’t move fast enough to stop him if he pulled the trigger.  “Buck, come on,” he said softly.  “This isn’t you.  Don’t do this.”

“Shut up!” Bucky roared, and suddenly the gun was whipped around and pointed at Steve.  It was just for a second, but it was enough to make Steve take a halting step back in shock and alarm.  Bucky seemed horrified himself, but it wasn’t enough to bring him out of this waking nightmare.  “You don’t know what they did to me!  You don’t know what they did!”

“I know,” Steve soothed.  He considered sliding his shield to his back to demonstrate that he wasn’t a threat, but he couldn’t.  Not with that gun shakily pointed at him.  And not with the madness swirling in Bucky’s eyes like a storm.  “I know.  But these men didn’t do it.  These men didn’t hurt you.”

Bucky’s baleful expression softened slightly.  The gun swung back.  The HYDRA officers were either too hurt or too terrified to move, and they cowered, shivering themselves, when the weapon was on them again.  Bucky was staring at them now like he was trying to understand.  Trying to make sense of these men and the men who’d strapped him to a table and done unspeakable things to him.  Trying to remember, to reconcile the past with the present.  Trying to believe.  “N-no…  No, it was them.  I know it was them.”

“No, it wasn’t,” Steve said again.  He came a little closer.  “It wasn’t, Buck.  You gotta believe me.  Trust me.  Just… please, put the gun down.”  Bucky hesitated.  Every second felt infinite, stretched by panic and fear.  If Bucky shot these men, murdered them…  Steve couldn’t let that happen.  “Bucky–”

The rage came back.  It was too strong.  It was hard and harsh and unrelenting.  “You bastard,” he sneered.  “You bastard!”  Steve didn’t know to whom Bucky was referring.  Him.  One of these officers.  The stuff of his nightmares.  The gun shook again.  The HYDRA commander whimpered, raising his shaking hands in submission.  “I’m gonna make you pay.  Goddamn sonuvabitch…  You stick your hands in my head, make me hurt…”  Tears were streaming down his cheeks.  Steve’s heart throbbed at the sight.  “I’m gonna kill you!”

“Bucky, if you kill them, you’re no better than they are.  It’s what they want.”

“No!  You stay the hell back!  I’m doin’ this!  I swear to God, I am!”

“Sergeant Barnes, stand down,” Steve said.  He kept his voice steady, trying to be a leader and a commanding officer if being a friend wasn’t working.  Bucky jerked, darting a glance at Steve.  “That’s an order.  Put the gun down!”

Bucky choked on a sob.  Now that he was hesitating, faltering, Steve thought he could tackle him and disarm him.  And he would, but only if he had to.  It would be better for Bucky if Steve talked him down.  He _could_ talk him down.  “Come on.  Put it down.”

“It hurts,” Bucky hissed. 

“I know.  But this isn’t the answer.”  Bucky gasped again, harsh and suffering.  He was lost in something Steve couldn’t understand.  Steve would do anything to understand it, to get in between this hell and his friend.  _Anything._

So he did.

Bucky’s aim faltered even further when Steve jumped in front of him.  He dropped his shield and stood in between Bucky and the Nazis.  “James,” he said softly.  “If you want to shoot them, you gotta do it through me.”  Bucky’s eyes widened.  Steve lowered his hands.  “If you want to.  If you really believe they hurt you.  If you really believe I’d lie to you.”  Bucky shook his head, frightened beyond measure.  Something softened.  Doubt piercing the rage.  Sanity in the face of trauma.  “It’s alright.  I promise you.  No one is going to hurt you here.”

The other Commandos were coming.  Steve prayed they wouldn’t interfere.  Not now.  Not when he was getting through.  Boots thudded into the cellar, and guns were brought up.  “Hell’s bells, Cap,” Dugan whispered.

Steve afforded them only a warning glance.  Their weapons shifted from Bucky to the HYDRA officers.  The tension was thick and unbearable.  Steve released a slow breath, calming his racing heart, and turned back to Bucky.  Bucky looked more confused than anything now, like the dawning realization that whatever he was reliving wasn’t real was shaking him down to his core.  Steve saw the cracks in the anger.  He needed to widen them, to get his fingers in there and break it apart and free Bucky from it.  “Please.”  He reached out his hand slowly.  “Please give me the gun.  Whatever you’re feeling, we’re going to work it out.  Together.”

The pistol shook more.  It was jabbed into the breast of Steve’s uniform now, right into the place beside the star over his heart.  Steve stood very still, aching to just pull it away, but he was afraid any sudden movements might shock or upset Bucky into pulling the trigger.  “You know me,” he said.  He held Bucky’s teary gaze.  “You know I wouldn’t lie to you or let them hurt you.  You know that.”  He slowly, carefully, reached up his gloved hand and set it over Bucky’s where it was tightly holding the gun.  Steve smiled faintly.  “Give me the gun.”

Bucky let go, crumpling against him.  “Steve, I…”

“I know, pal.  I know.”

And that was it.  Bucky handed him the gun.

* * *

The worst is over.  The violence is past.  The Winter Soldier is gone again, leaving behind a hollowed shell of a man suffering in a broken body.  Bucky’s spent the last thirty minutes throwing up seemingly everything he’s ever eaten.  The drugs are running their course now and near the end of it.  Withdrawal’s setting in.  Bruce came to the door a few minutes ago to give Steve instructions on helping Bucky deal with it, bearing water, painkillers, and a timid promise that it shouldn’t be too long.  Steve hopes so, but he knows better.  It’s already taken twelve hours to get to this point, to push the programming and madness and hallucinations back down deep enough so that Bucky is in control again.  There are hours more ahead of them.

He carefully rubs Bucky’s back where he lays on the floor beside the toilet, groaning and sweating and suffering.  The stimulants and hallucinogenic chemicals HYDRA pumped into Bucky are doing a number on him now, a torment of a different but no less devastating kind.  He can’t sleep.  He’s restless, jittery like ants are crawling under his skin, sweating incessantly and moaning in delirium and nausea.  Steve can’t let Bucky go through this hell alone.  He stays beside him, a hand always on his friend’s ailing body even though he knows touch is a dangerous thing right now.  Some are welcomed, but some aren’t, and which are which changes unpredictably and without warning.  Still, he risks it.  He isn’t afraid.  “You need to drink something.”  A curse in Russian answers.  Steve uncaps a water bottle and offers it to Bucky.  “Come on.  Getting dehydrated is only going to make it worse.”

“No.”

Steve manages a chuckle.  He’s so tired.  “And you always tell me that I was difficult one when I was sick.”

Bucky groans and shifts on the floor.  Steve knows what’s about to happen even before the realization strikes Bucky, and he moves fast to help the other man up just in time for him to throw up again.  There’s nothing left at this point, but he quakes miserably with deep, dry heaving.  Steve keeps his hand on his back.  He never lets go.  “It’ll be alright,” he softly swears.  He’s always promising this.  “We’re gonna get you through this.  I promise.”

“Steve?”

“Yeah,” Steve breathes.

“It hurts.  I don’t want to…”

“I know.  We’ll do it together.”  _Together._

* * *

The Commandos pulled their prisoners out of the cellar.  They found a jeep in the town, old and run-down but still working enough, and Dugan, Jones, and Falsworth loaded up their prize and headed back to the SSR contingent behind them.  The rest of the company secured the village, treating the wounded villagers where they could and containing the remainder of the German prisoners until reinforcements arrived.  Despite the frantic and chaotic firefight of the afternoon, the early evening was peaceful.  The air was tight with the chill, but the twilight was somehow pleasant.  It was the relief of another battle won.  It was the calm and quiet euphoria of another day survived in this war.

Steve found Bucky outside of the town keeping watch.  He was standing with his back against the stone wall, hidden among the craggy, bare shrubs with his rifle loose in his hands.  Steve’s boots crunched on the hard ground and dead grass as he walked closer.  “Can I join you?”

Bucky looked at him.  He was almost back to himself, back to the man he had been.  His eyes were clearer, more focused and aware, even if they were haunted and steeped in exhaustion.  “Would you leave if I said no?”

Steve was already leaning his tall form to the wall beside the other man.  He set his helmet and his shield beside him.  “No.”

They were quiet for some time.  Before them the eastern sky was already dark, streaked with silver and cerulean, and the stars were beginning to make a timid appearance.  The evening was silent, deeply so, with only the gentle rustle of a winter’s wind against the naked limbs of the shrubs and trees around them.  Steve didn’t know what to say.  For the first time in forever, he didn’t know how to talk to Bucky.  It killed him inside.  “Listen, I–”

“I don’t want to talk about it,” Bucky softly declared.  His tone wasn’t angry, but it was rough and hurt.  There was pain there that went deep.  And there was shame.  “I’m sorry.”

Steve didn’t know if he was apologizing for not wanting to divulge his feelings or for his behavior.  “You’ve got nothing to apologize for.”

“The hell I don’t,” Bucky muttered.  His eyes were squinted as he gazed across the vast, barren emptiness of the field in front of him.  His nose was red, but his face was pale and lined with shadows.  His breath was a slow jet of air before him.  “I could have killed you.”

“You didn’t.”

“But I could have.”

“But you didn’t.”

“Steve–”

“Damn it, Buck, don’t do this to yourself.  And don’t shut me out.  Whatever else happens, we have each other, and I’m not going to let you suffer through this by yourself.  I’d have to be blind not to see that it’s eatin’ you up inside.  You don’t have to go it alone.  You don’t have to keep it all up inside you,” Steve said.  “Let me help you.”

“You can’t help me,” Bucky rasped.

“Try me,” Steve said without an ounce of doubt in his voice.

Bucky hesitated, staring at Steve, trying to find the strength to trust, perhaps, or the courage to be honest about how much he hurt.  He sniffed and looked down.  “It’s in my head.  God.”  He shook his head again, and hands chapped red from the cold and wind wiped at his eyes.  “Damn it all to hell, Steve.  I can’t even explain myself.  I just saw ’em, and I…”  He shook his head in disgust.  “It was like I was back there.  I lost it.  I couldn’t stop myself.  I wanted to, but I …  I couldn’t do it.”

Steve moved just a little closer, hoping his nearness would offer up at least a little warmth if not some comfort.  “I know,” he said.  “You did, though.  In the end.”

Bucky didn’t seem to hear him.  “I just… I couldn’t tell what was real and what wasn’t.  Everything was messed up real bad, and it was all just one blur of…  Christ.  The nightmares.  I feel like they took everything, you know?  Evil bastards.  They took _everything_.  Everything I wanted.  Everything I was.”  He squeezed his eyes shut hard, jabbing his teeth into his lower lip.  “Who I am.”

“They didn’t take anything,” Steve said firmly.  “They couldn’t.”

“How can I go back home like this?  Ever?”  He bitterly looked away.  “If I even live through this hell.  I don’t know who I am.  I don’t know.  How do I get that back?”  Steve didn’t have an answer, at least not one that would make it better.  Words weren’t adequate.  So to hell with decorum and rank and all of that.  He set his arm across Bucky’s shoulders and pulled him close.  Bucky was stiff and resistant for a moment, but then he succumbed.  His rifle was trapped between them as Steve wrapped both his arms around him and held firm.  Steve kept Bucky in his embrace, thinking by his soft, hitched breaths that he was maybe crying and not caring one damn bit. 

Eventually, after what felt like a long time, Bucky pulled away.  He sniffed and wiped at his eyes and nose.  “You gonna tell Phillips about this?”

Steve tipped his head slightly, letting out a long breath.  He returned his gaze to stare out across the field.  “No.”

Bucky nodded, looking down at his boots.  He didn’t say anything to that, but his relief was palpable.  As was his gratitude.  They didn’t speak again for a while, the silence far less pressing and uncomfortable now than it had been before.  “It won’t happen again,” Bucky finally swore.  His voice was steady.  “I swear it won’t.”

“I know it won’t,” Steve said.  Hearing that warmed him inside, despite the bite of the air and the fears in his heart.  He clasped Bucky’s shoulder again, offering up an affectionate squeeze and a confident smile.  “You’re strong.  Stronger than whatever they did to you.  We’ll get through this.  And I’ll be there for you no matter what.  I know I wasn’t back when they took you.  But I can be now.  I promise I always will be.  You’ve done it for me our whole lives.  It’s my turn to do it for you.”

“Stevie–”

“Til the end of the line, right?  That goes both ways.”

Bucky smiled.  It was the first Steve had seen in days.  It was a shadow of his normal grin, muted by recognition of the fact that he had been changed and that he was different.  That he’d come so close to so much darkness – murder and vengeance and hatred – and if Steve hadn’t been there to pull him back, he would have fallen down into it.  There was still the glimmer of tears in his eyes, but he held them in this time, staring at Steve until his smile grew wider and bolder and more confident.  Until he looked like himself again.  Until he _was_ himself again.

Steve smiled, too.  “How do you feel about a real bed?  The folks in the village are really grateful, so they offered up a few of their houses to us for the night.”

Bucky chuckled wearily.  “Dum Dum’s gonna be pissed he missed out on that.”

“Buck?”

“What?”

“It’ll be okay.  I know it will be.”

Bucky looked at him before leaning a little closer into Steve’s side again and sagging into his warmth.  “Yeah.  I know.”

* * *

In the end, it takes about thirty-six hours for the drugs to completely work their way out of Bucky’s body.  When the hysteria and aggression caused by them begins to abate, HYDRA’s programming is easy to overcome.  The Winter Soldier is gone again, buried anew under the restraints Bucky and Steve have built to keep him contained.  There is nothing to power the monster now, and he recedes, though not without a lasting blow.  The unpleasant withdrawal goes on and on, filled with feverish sweats and tremors that shake Bucky so hard that they shake Steve, too.  Long hours of vomiting and phantom pains wear at them both, but Steve never leaves, never wavers, staying by Bucky’s side.  He keeps cool washcloths on Bucky’s brow, neck, and chest, cleans up the mess silently and without fail, stays awake even though he’s utterly exhausted between the frantic hours spent searching for Bucky, the ordeal of getting Bucky back, and the trauma since then.  He wakes him when the nightmares get to be too much, holding him through the worst of the fits.  As Bucky comes more and more back into himself, he tries to push Steve away, to shrivel in shame and anger at the damage he’s once again done to his friend, but Steve doesn’t let him.  They stay together through it all.

“Steve?”

Bucky’s weak call pierces the haze of exhaustion falling over Steve.  He’s in the middle of refilling the bowl he’s been using to ease Bucky’s fever, and he must have dozed because the water is overflowing into the sink.  He jerks to awareness a little, blinking rapidly to clear the blurriness from his eyes and turning off the faucet.  “What?”

“You – you don’t have to keep doin’ this for me.”  The whispered words are rough with regret and shame.  “I’m…  I’m so goddamn weak.  I hate how weak I am.”

“You’re not–”

“I hate that I keep doin’ this to you.  You should’ve left me.  Should’ve let me go through this alone.  It’s not worth it.  I could’ve hurt you again.”

“Shut up.”  It’s the same argument.  They’ve had it so many times, back to the war when the hell of Zola’s experiments first began to appear.  And it always ends the same way.  “I’m not going to leave you.  I don’t care how many times I – _we_ – have to do this.  We’re in it together.”

Bucky’s voice breaks on a weeping moan.  “They keep draggin’ me back.  Can’t escape.  God help me for all the times I’ve dragged you with me…”

Steve comes closer, setting the bowl to the floor.  “Hey,” he says.  He kneels beside the bed and grabs both of Bucky’s trembling, clammy hands in his own.  “We’ve been through this.  I’m never going to let you go through it by yourself.  _Never._ What’s that saying?”  He gives a stupid grin.  “He ain’t heavy.  He’s my brother.”

“But it’s never going to end,” Bucky murmurs.  “It’s never going to be over.”

Steve can’t lie anymore.  He might have before, but now, after this resurgence of everything they thought they’d overcome and buried and put behind them…  His faith is wavering just a little.  “Maybe not.”

“It’s always going to be there.”

“So will I.”  Steve squeezes Bucky’s fingers tightly and offers a steadfast smile.  “And it’s never taking you away so far that I can’t get you back, you hear me?”

Bucky smiles again.  It’s starts as a faint thing, but it speaks volumes where he doesn’t.  He’s never been good at expressing his feelings, even before the Winter Soldier and the war and everything that’s happened since, but Steve knows how to hear what he can’t say.  His grin grows sloppy, wider and wider, and his eyes are clear.  They slip shut languidly, and the tension at long last fades.  “Stupid, stubborn punk.”

“Learned from the best.”  Bucky grunts a laugh at that.  “Go to sleep, jerk.”

Bucky does.  It’s a deep, healing sleep.  After a while, Steve drapes a blanket over him and collapses wearily to the floor, closing his eyes and thanking God that they’ve survived this, that they’ve gotten through it again.  He also falls asleep, or he must have, because when he opens his eyes, it’s to Bruce examining Bucky as he slumbers and Sharon and Sam leaning over him.  “Steve?” Sharon calls.  She smiles warmly.

“Bucky?” Steve mumbles.

“He’s fine.  Let’s get you out of here.  You need to sleep some place more comfortable,” Sam says.

“But…”

“No buts,” Sharon returns gently.  “It’s fine.  The others have this now.”  She tugs Steve upward, and together she and Sam get him standing.  “On your feet, soldier.”

They walk him to bed.  Sharon cleans him up, her hands tender and loving as she washes away crusted blood and dirt and sweat and things worse than that and helps him out of his clothes.  She tucks him in and lies beside him and holds him until he drifts back to sleep.  He does, thinking about Brooklyn and the smell of cigars and his mother’s cooking and the thrill of summer and Bucky’s smile, brighter and warmer than the sun.

* * *

Things went back to normal, as normal as things could be given where they were, who they were, and what they were doing.  The war lumbered on.  It always had and it always would.  They fought, side by side.  They survived together.  A couple weeks later it was finally Christmas, and the Commandos were granted a much needed break.  They met up with SSR and the infantry in support again, and they found themselves among friends and in the relative safety of a well-fortified camp, surrounded by other people who would bear the burden of war for one night.

Steve watched Bucky stare morosely into the fire.  There was drinking and singing in the tent behind them, Dugan’s loud baritone mixed with Jones and Dernier belting out a ballad in French and Morita telling them all to stop strangling the cat.  The racket was probably attracting every German from here to Paris, but tonight it was okay.  And there was real food, as much of a feast as they’d had for weeks.  But Bucky was out here, still distant and hurting though not so acutely.  Steve watched him breathe for a moment, watched him shrug deeper into his coat and shiver slightly.  The flickering light of the fire washed over his solemn face in gold and yellow.  Then Steve stepped closer and tossed a package down into Bucky’s lap.  “Here.”

Bucky jerked.  He looked up as Steve stepped around his little make-shift camp to sit beside him.  Bucky lifted the package from his thighs, eyeing it suspiciously.  “What’s this?”

Steve smiles slyly.  “Little present.”

Bucky winced in irritation.  “I can’t take this.  I didn’t get you anything.  We’re in the middle of a war, for Christ’s sake.”

“I don’t need you to get me anything.  If you ask me, I’ve been plenty blessed this year,” responded Steve.  “Besides, it’s not much.  And sorry about the wrapping, but I figured we’ve used worse in the past.”

“Stevie, I–”

“Just shut your trap and open it.”

Bucky hesitated a moment more, but then he looked down at the gift.  It was simple, a thin, rectangular thing wrapped in reused brown paper and tied with twine.  He pulled one end of the bow, undoing it slowly, before unfolding the paper.  Steve watched in excitement and anticipation.  He was pretty proud of himself, if he did say so.  When Bucky unveiled the marred, well-worn leather portfolio inside, he glanced up in confusion and surprise.  Steve nodded in encouragement, and Bucky opened it.

It was Brooklyn.  The bridge.  Their street.  Their apartment and Mr. Connelly’s grocers down the street where Steve had swept floors and Bucky had stocked shelves.  Jameson’s store with the black licorice Steve loved.  Ebbets Field and the Cyclone at Coney Island.  Their neighbors and friends and some of the girls Bucky had been sweet on.  Their school.  Their church.  Bucky’s ma and pa.  His sisters.  _Their life_ , drawn in stunning detail _._   “What is this?” Bucky murmured in complete shock.

“I didn’t have any charcoal, so I had to do the best I could with pencil.  The shading’s not so great in some places.”

“Steve, this is…”  He flipped through the drawings.  There were dozens of them, all beautiful scenes from their past, painstakingly recreated with a level of understanding and care only possible from someone who’d been there, seen these things, _lived_ them.  “How did you have the time to do all this?”

Steve shrugged.  “Don’t need as much sleep as I used to, it seems.”

“But _how_ –”

“Guess my memory’s better, too.”

Bucky finally managed to close his mouth.  He swept his fingers down over the drawing of his mother, over her caring, warm eyes and frazzled hair and strong features.  He flipped to the next sketch.  It was of him, dressed in his service uniform and cover before he’d shipped out to London back in April.  There was pride and light in his eyes.  That pride and light were here, too, thousands of miles away and even in the wintry darkness.  “Wow.  This is amazing.  Thanks.”

Steve nudged him a little.  “Next time you feel like they took everything, you can look at these and know they didn’t get _anything_.  You’re still you, no matter what anyone does to you.”

Bucky looked up at him finally, and his eyes twinkled wetly in the firelight.  His face was open, lax in astonishment and gratitude, and the grin that came now was huge and genuine.  Steve’s heart ached in joy and relief at seeing it.  “Steve, I…  Jeez, I don’t know what to say.  This is…  It’s home.”  _Our home.  Together as friends.  Together as brothers._

Steve smiled.  “Merry Christmas, Buck.”

**THE END**


End file.
